


Exercise Ficlets

by cloakstone69



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bondlock, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pain, Parentlock, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, canon spoilers, hahaha i don't even know what i'm doing here, series 4 predictions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:43:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1442185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloakstone69/pseuds/cloakstone69
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After attending 221b Con this year, I have been duly informed by our Fanfiction Goddesses in no uncertain terms that I am, in fact, a Writer. However, since it has been 18 years (3rd grade!) from when I last wrote fiction, and what with the lofty goal of doing NaNoWriMo this year, I figured I had better start practicing. Hence, this will be a collection of ficlets from many different fandoms - I am literally re-learning how to put one word after the other.<br/>Prompts are entirely welcome! (Though I will be leaving the smut-writing up to the professionals, for the time being.) I need to practice scene-building, character voices, sentence structure: the absolute most basic skills. So please, I need all the help and constructive criticism I can get.<br/>HUGE thanks to emmagrant, roane72, drinkingcocoa, and madlori for encouraging me to follow this new (old? forgotten?) path!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After what happened during Setlock last year, I can only imagine the ways in which TPTB will continue to torture us by means of false anticipation. I have borrowed the name from LittlePippin's AMAZING work, "Just for fun" over on ff.net, but I am trying not to make the characters similar in any other way. Also, "Scarlet" is about as close to "Sherlock" as I think we're going to get.

The schoolchildren streamed out from the front doors of the primary school. Sherlock ground his cigarette underneath his foot before turning down his coat collar and crossing the road. Joining the other parents, he scrutinized the crowd of raucous students before spotting a familiar, golden-haired six-year-old.

"Uncle Sherlock! Uncle Sherlock!"

Scarlet Watson ran through the school gates, rucksack bouncing on the ground. She barreled towards the consulting detective, and he swept her up in his arms and smiled at her.

"Good afternoon, Scarlet. How was your day?"

Scarlet lit up like a Christmas tree. "Guess!"

"I never guess."

Scarlet, much like her father, rolled her eyes. "Reduce it, then!"

"DE-duce."

"Yes, that." Scarlet wriggled a bit, and Sherlock set her back down on the pavement. They started walking towards Regent's Park.

"Well, you've got a bit of finger-paint under your nails, and your ponytail has been re-done at least twice, so I would say - "

"I solved a mystery!" Scarlet interrupted, unable to contain herself. "Henry the Hedgehog disappeared during recess, and I figured out where he was!"

A flock of pigeons fluttered across their path as Sherlock turned to smile at her. "Go on."

Scarlet skipped happily, rucksack bouncing on her shoulders. "Well, I remembered Peter was whinging yesterday about how his mum wouldn't let him have a pet, because of her aller-"

A dog in the park began barking in earnest. Sherlock reached down and took Scarlet's hand in his. She pressed on. "And I know his mum also packs him Jammy Dodgers in his lunch EVERY day, because Daddy only lets me have them on Sat-"

An ambulance came careening around the corner, sirens blaring. Sherlock tightened his grip. Scarlet dove back into her story as soon as the wailing died down.

"Anyway, I checked the bin for Jammy Dodger wrappers, just to make absolutely sure I didn't miss him eating it. And then during maths, I asked Miss Winthrop if I could go to the loo. Once I was out alone in the hallway, I checked Peter's rucksack, and there he was!"

She looked up at him, grinning. "Aren't you proud of me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked at her.

"Uncle Sherlock?"

* * *

 

"Sherlock!"

With a heaving gasp, Sherlock found himself staring not at the sky, but at the cold fluorescent lighting of the hospital ceiling. Lestrade shook his shoulder again.

"Sherlock, what's going on? Are they all right? How long has it been?"

A door at the end of the hallway banged open, making them both glance up. John stumbled into the hall, leaning against the wall for support.

Sherlock didn't remember moving. The next moment, he had his arm around his best friend, lowering him onto a nearby bench.

"Is she all right? The baby, is she all right?"

John let out a low, shuddering breath.

"No."

 

 


	2. Bond Night: Skyfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to read this ever since Series 3 came out, so I finally buckled down and wrote it myself. I can't believe it took me 45 minutes to write this. *profusely apologizes for excessive commas and alliteration*

"Popcorn is done!" John called from the kitchen, just as Sherlock slid the couch into place in front of the tv set. John wandered into the living room, two open beers in one hand, and a giant bowl of buttery popcorn in the other.

"All set?"

"Hang on, let me just - " Sherlock wriggled his hand into the couch cushions and extracted the tv remote. "Ah, knew it was in here somewhere." He started the film and they settled in for another Bond Night.

They hadn’t discussed much of what had gone on while Sherlock was away, but it soon came to light that neither of them had seen the newest James Bond film. Sherlock put it down to ‘being held hostage by various terrorist networks” and John claimed “Mary doesn’t really go in for violent films”, but both of them hadn’t been able to pluck up the courage to watch the iconic spy without the other.

Soon, Adele’s mournful tones filled the flat, mirroring the dreary November rain against the windows. Sherlock shifted uneasily when it was revealed 007 had been faking his death, but John seemed unfazed. 

"More beer?" John asked as the spy shagged Severine in the shower. "Yes, please" Sherlock replied, leaning over to stoke the fire back into a blaze. John twisted open the bottle and handed it over, settling back into his seat and arranging the blanket over their laps. "This is quite a bit better than the last one, isn’t it?"

"Mmm" replied Sherlock non-committedly. "I think getting shot in the head by a sniper in a skyscraper is a bit of a cliche, actually." John chuckled at that. Sherlock gave an inward sigh of relief - he hadn’t seen his best friend smile much since Bonfire Night (or the past two years, for that matter) - and he was glad to find he could still make John laugh.

As Silva stalked across the computer-filled warehouse, monologuing about rats and islands, John slouched contentedly into the sofa. But when the former agent openly flirted with his successor, and Bond, unfazed, flirted right back, John’s spine straightened, ever so slightly.

Sherlock glanced over at his former flatmate. “Something wrong?”

"No," John replied too quickly. "I just…I didn’t know - well, erm." He coughed, shifting in his seat.

"There is such a thing as bisexuality, you know,” Sherlock reminded him. “I remember one of my first clients had - “

"Yeah, but it’s James Bond,” John ejaculated. “I mean, there’s 50 years worth of Bond women, right? Can the writers really do that? Just tack it on like it’s no big deal?” He was spluttering, he knew, and missing important plotlines in the process, but his outward indignation managed to cover a tiny spark of hope.

Or so he thought.

"John, you can’t possibly be offended by this. You told me yourself, ‘It’s ALL fine.’ Does a fictional character’s sexuality really matter?” Sherlock peered at John. “I suppose it might resonate with the audience a bit, especially those who don’t see themselves represented very often - “

John twisted away, grabbing the remote to turn up the volume. “Forget it, ok? It’s fine.” He crossed his legs and glared at the television, where Severine was now balancing a glass of whiskey on her head, but Sherlock could almost make out a hint of a smile on the corner of John’s mouth.

Or maybe it was just a trick of the firelight.


	3. On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2017\. Right after the Final Showdown.

Sally glanced up from her phone just in time to see the three men emerge from the cathedral doors.  _Finally._

It had been a long night - one consulting detective was bad enough during a high-stakes case, but replace him with an army doctor, and just about everyone at the Yard was ready to escape on holiday the moment the paperwork went through. Sally rubbed her eyes and unlocked the police car, as John, assisted on either side by his flatmate and her boss, slowly descended the monumental stone steps of St. Paul's.

Lestrade opened the rear door for John, before sliding into the passenger seat next to Sally. "He's fine. They're both fine."

"Where?" She was much too exhausted for long sentences.

"Baker Street," croaked Sherlock from the backseat. She glanced in the rear mirror. He looked completely done in - dark circles under his eyes, hair a wild tangle, Belstaff ripped and covered in blood - but there was a gleam of...something...in his eyes. A smug, triumphant Sherlock was perfectly normal after the mystery was solved, but this was...different.  _Happy? Relieved?_ Sally pondered as she shifted gears.  _Defeating one's arch-enemy will do that, I suppose..._

They sped along Marylebone Road, the pink sunrise glinting off the London Eye. Sally glanced in the rearview mirror and gave a start. Lestrade looked around at her, and she jerked her head toward the backseat, resuming her focus on the traffic. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a broad grin on the inspector's face, removing any trace of weariness that had settled in the last 72 hours. At the next traffic light, she stole a peek in the rearview mirror. They were still there, leaning against each other, the curly dark head resting on top of the grey one. Both fast asleep.

* * *

John blearily opened his eyes when Sherlock nudged him awake. "John. We're home." Lestrade held open the car door, while Sherlock helped John out, taking care not to jar his leg. "Thank you for the lift, Greg. I presume you have everything you need?" 

"Yeah. You both get some rest for a few days. John?"

"Mmmm?"

"Thank you." John nodded, still drowsy from the painkillers. Sherlock reached down, pulled John's arm over his shoulders, and they hobbled towards the front door of 221 Baker Street. Climbing the stairs was a daunting task, and seventeen slow and frustrating steps later, both men sighed with relief upon reaching the flat.

With twin grunts, Sherlock lowered John into his chair by the fireplace. John raised his head, only to find Sherlock's face inches from his own. Before he could react, Sherlock had fluttered off to the kitchen, mumbling something about tea. John leaned over and scooted Sherlock's vacant chair closer, and lifted his injured leg onto the cushion, wincing. The last three days had been hell, and a bullet in the leg was just icing on the cake. Back to physical therapy, then, and no running around London chasing murderers before it was finished.

Sherlock returned to the living room, placed John's teacup on the end table, and strode over to the corner of the room where he kept his violin. John sipped his tea as Sherlock tuned the instrument, not having played it in several months.

As the lilting strains of Mendelssohn filled the flat, John leaned back and closed his eyes. Memories of the previous night, interwoven with those of the last seven years, played across his mind like a film. 

_"He doesn't have friends."_

_"I don't have friends....I've just got one."_

_"I am NOT a sociopath!"_

_"The two people I love most in the whole world."_

_"The two people who love you most in all this world."_

_"I don't even know your name."_

_"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."_

_"It's not like it's 1895, Johnny."_

_"No one could be that clever."_

_"You could."_

_"You're a good man, Sherlock Holmes."_

_"You...you DO care."_

_"Yes, I do."_

The violin started to play a different, more familiar tune. John perked up his ears. He hadn't ever heard it played on a violin before, much less by Sherlock, who favored classical musical above all else. It was a Scottish ballad, something his grandmother used to sing.

"Where'd you learn that one?"

Sherlock faltered a bit, but kept on going. "I heard you humming it, once. A few years ago."

John stared at him. "And you...you picked it up, just now?"

Sherlock turned toward him, sunlight glinting off the chestnut wood. "No...I...I looked it up. Practiced it whenever you weren't home." Then, so softly John could barely hear him over the refrain, "Do you like it?"

John's internal organs seemed to be inflating. He heaved himself up out of the armchair, and Sherlock froze, violin still tucked under his chin. John limped over to him and gently moved the bow out of the way.

"I'm an idiot."

"So am I."

"We're both idiots."

A pause, and the violin and bow clattered to the floor. John found himself enveloped in Sherlock's arms, his own hands clutching at his beloved's neck and face, lips seeking out each other. Sherlock whimpered against his mouth, and squeezed John even tighter, making him gasp in pain.

"Damn my leg!"

They broke apart, still grasping each other's arms. A rumbling started within Sherlock's chest, and John's giggles joined in. Within moments, they were both howling and crying with laughter, collapsing into their chairs by the fireplace.

 


End file.
